


The Here and Now

by Wxlves



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Enemies to Friends, M/M, Time Travel, based off a tumblr prompt, not really slash but I won’t discourage reading it that way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wxlves/pseuds/Wxlves
Summary: All Dorian remembered was the urge to get out, to get away, and he’d suddenly found himself here. Where here was, he could only guess.[Dorian’s raw magic can take him across time and space. Every place and every time he travels to, he ends up bumping into a certain immortal.]
Relationships: Dorian Havilliard & Fenrys, Dorian Havilliard/Fenrys
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the prompt “a friendship between a time traveler and an immortal. Wherever the time traveler ends up, the immortal is there to catch them up to speed”

All Dorian remembered was the urge to  _ get out, get away,  _ and he’d suddenly found himself here. Where  _ here  _ was, he could only guess.

He stepped from the secluded alleyway into a bustling street, white stone buildings rising above the cobblestones, ox carts clattering by, the noise and bustle of the city as familiar as Rifthold. Something was different, though. This city was clean; no muddy Avery reeking of dirty water and the fisherman’s catches, no slime-filled drainage canals or tumble-down buildings or uneven streets that filled with puddles.

The people, too, were different. Many had an elegant grace and strength to their gait like trained dancers, and swept-back hair revealed daintily pointed ears. Some of the creatures that bustled by were even less human-looking with pale blue skin or lidless golden eyes or membranous, fin-like hands and feet.

Dorian could think of only one place where magical beings would coexist freely like this in such a busy city. He was in Doranelle. Entirely unsure  _ how  _ he’d arrived here but lacking any real options, Dorian set out down the street. 

Within two blocks he heard a loud whistle like someone was calling a dog. He ignored it until he heard the sound again, turning to find a beautiful blond Fae looking straight at him. He arched one brow as if to say ‘who me?’

The Fae gave him an impatient look and gestured for Dorian to come over. Normally he’d resist if someone tried to call him over like a hound, but he figured this situation was strange enough that he could let go of his pride for one moment.

As he approached the Fae’s table the male removed his boots from where they’d been propped on another chair and waved his hand for Dorian to sit.

Was this a trap? Possibly. Was Dorian uninclined to trust the male? Definitely. Would he hear him out anyways, simply because he had nowhere else to be? Certainly.

He’d barely taken a seat before the Fae leaned across the table, studying Dorian unnaturally close as he resisted the urge to slide his chair away. Instead, he stared back, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“So,” the Fae mused, sharp canines catching the sun as he spoke, “you look familiar. What’s your name?”

Dorian thought it best to lie. “Hadrian,” he answered, frowning as the male remained far too close for his comfort. There was something dangerous in those eyes, a sharp intelligence and an unchecked arrogance. Amusement, too, as though he found Dorian to be an adorable little animal, entertaining though hardly worth much time.

He was unnerving, to say the least.

“I suppose I don’t get the pleasure of your name, despite the fact that you so politely summoned me over,” Dorian said coolly. 

The male studied him for another moment before leaning back, lounging in his chair like it was a throne. “Fenrys,” he replied.

When he said nothing else, Dorian broke the silence that had fallen. Settling his expression into an uninterested mask, he asked, “out of curiosity, do you happen to know the date?”

He must have said something wrong, because a small, triumphant smile curled Fenry’s lips. “It’s the eve of the Day of Flowers, one of the four seasonal holidays, and you have to ask the  _ date _ ? It’s the day we honor the great Silba for all her life-giving gifts of spring and it’s on the same day every damned year.” There was a hint of bitterness in the male’s tone as he spoke about the goddess, as though he either didn’t believe in the gods or merely had a bone to pick with her personally.

Dorian was baffled, though he tried his best not to show it. The Day of Flowers, celebrated across several continents, had already passed months ago. Were Dorian’s powers now taking him across time as well as distance? So why not go back centuries and help the ancient king Gavin seal away Erawan or another time equally as important?

Instead he was here, in a beautiful city just before a holiday, sitting across from an absurdly beautiful Fae wanting to punch the smile right off his face. That was not the kind of wish befitting of a crown prince, but Dorian was having a horrible day.

“Just humor me, Fenrys. What is today’s date?”

“Maybe I’d be more cooperative if you hadn’t lied to me before,” the male purred. Gods, it would be satisfying to punch him. Not that Dorian stood a chance against a Fae warrior.

“I didn’t lie,” he snarled through gritted teeth.

“Oh! There’s another one!” Fenrys swung his booted feet up onto the table between them and peered at Dorian with a dangerously amused look. “Do you know what I hate?”

“I don’t particularly care,” Dorian snorted. He was beginning to think this conversation wasn’t worth his time.

“The Queen. The great and wonderful Fae Queen Maeve. She’s a raging bitch and a  _ total _ thorn in my ass.” Dorian blinked in surprise at the venom and the outward aggression. His father would kill for far less if he heard it.

“Of course, she knows this already and delights in the fact,” Fenrys added, seeing Dorian’s expression. “Do you know what else I hate?”

This time he didn’t wait for a response. “Liars. I’ll ask you this one more time before I become… unfriendly. What is your name, boyo?”

Dorian figured he didn’t want to know this immortal’s definition of unfriendly. “My name is Dorian,” he answered. “Why did you call me over here?”

To his shock, Fenrys answered him forthright. “Because you look familiar but smell  _ very _ strange. Now I know why I recognized you, your Majesty.”

“I smell strange?” Dorian lifted one brow in question.

“Like you don’t belong here. But your home is in Adarlan, so  _ what  _ is a king doing wandering the streets of a faraway continent asking for the date?”

_ King? _ Dorian had thought he’d traveled back several months, but in reality he must have gone years into the future. So what happened to his father in that time?  _ When  _ did it happen? Months ago?  _ Years _ ago?

There was no good way to ask these questions without looking like he was utterly losing it, and he didn’t trust Fenrys as far as his arm reached. On the other hand, the Fae could tell when he was lying.

“My father…” Dorian mused, hoping to lead Fenrys into giving him some clue.

“Not likely that your father is the reason you sit here now, especially since he’s half a decade in the grave. No, the honorable Gavin IV is  _ not _ the explanation I want.”

Gavin IV was Dorian’s grandfather, not his father. He tried to say as much but Fenrys only laughed at him. “I may be older than you’ll ever hope to live, but I’m still young by Fae standards, and unlike some people, I’m not losing my mind. Twenty years ago my queen sent me to meet with Gavin, trying to smooth over rising tensions between my people and yours. At the time, he had a newborn son with hair as dark as yours — it would be impossible for that son to have a child as old as you.”

A detail Fenrys mentioned nagged at Dorian. Gavin had a son who would now be twenty years old, but who would have ascended to the throne upon Gavin’s death at fifteen.

The answer hit him like a slap to the face. Dorian, technically, was Dorian Havilliard II — his father was Dorian I, who had been granted partial responsibility for the kingdom upon  _ his _ father’s death when he was fifteen years old. When the Queen Regent Eleanne died years later, Dorian I was given full control of Adarlan.

Fenrys thought Dorian was his father, and until he could wrestle his magic into behaving and take himself back to the present, he was stuck decades in the past, running around looking like the spitting image of a king. That could only attract the wrong kind of attention.

In fact, Dorian wondered if he already  _ had  _ attracted the wrong kind of attention — Fenrys certainly didn’t seem like he would help out of the kindness of his heart. However, altruist or no, Fenrys was still Dorian’s only hope.

“I’m going to tell you something that will sound absurd, but I need you to listen.”

Fenrys pulled out a long, thin knife and started using the tip to scrape at nonexistent dirt under his nails, eyeing Dorian the whole time. He didn’t say a word but Dorian understood the threat perfectly. Tell the truth and the knife doesn’t end up in you.

“I’m Dorian Havilliard II. Gavin IV is my grandfather and the man you seem to think I am is really my father. I don’t doubt what you told me about meeting Gavin, but I assure you I know who I am.”

Fenrys didn’t say anything, which Dorian took as a cue to keep talking. He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “I’ve jumped through space before, but this time it seems my powers took me through space and time.”

Fenry’s lazy slouch immediately disappeared. His gaze sharpened as he sat up straighter, leaning in slightly. “You have powers of manipulation,” he breathed, “The  _ here and now  _ becomes inconsequential.”

“Not just that, but yes.”

Dorian regretted his words when Fenrys’ interest somehow became more intense. “Not just that?”

Against his better judgement, he let a small flame flicker on his fingertip like a candle as a sliver of frost crept across the wooden table towards the Fae.

“Raw magic.” The hunger in Fenry’s eyes made Dorian want to hide like a little child. “Do you know how much danger you’re in, boy?”

Every nerve in Dorian’s body was on alert, screaming at him to run. “What kind of danger?” he asked, putting as much steel into his voice as he could muster.

“Maeve likes to collect pretty, powerful males. Usually she shies away from humans because your lifespan is only the blink of an eye to her, she’s older than even I can comprehend. But a man gifted with raw magic as you are? She would be delighted to get her hands on you.” There was something in Fenrys’ tone that made ice crawl up Dorian’s spine, a hint of fear hiding under the simmering rage as he spoke about his queen.

“Will you help me?”

“Lucky for you, I wouldn’t want to give Maeve the satisfaction of adding another doll to her collection. Even luckier for you, I have similar powers.”

“Similar how?”

“I can shift, same as many Fae.” Dorian received a lupine grin and he could have sworn those dark eyes flashed gold for a second. “And I can leap across small distances. However, I’ve never accidentally found myself on the wrong continent, so you evidently have more power than me.”

“Don’t take it too hard,” Dorian found himself saying, “we all have our weaknesses.”

To his surprise, Fenrys didn’t kill him where he sat, only tipped his head back and laughed. “Let’s try to get you back where you belong, prince. Just one question.”

“Yes?”

“Does Maeve still live in your time?”

Dorian nodded ‘yes’ and Fenrys sighed. It was a resigned, hopeless sound, dejected enough that Dorian almost felt sympathy for the infuriating Fae. He wondered what kept Fenrys here with the dark queen, what kept him from fleeing this continent away from the woman he so vehemently hated. 


	2. Greece, 430 BCE

Dorian went to sleep in his bed in Rifthold. He awoke beside a river, the hot sun beating down, a warm breeze ruffling the grasses around him. For a moment he thought he may have just drunk too much and woken somewhere unfamiliar, but there was an inherent strangeness to the air that told him he was far from home.

Groaning, he flopped onto his back and covered his eyes in the crook of his elbow. He’d managed to keep his powers restrained, he hadn’t leapt accidentally since that day several months ago when he’d found himself in Doranelle.

Dorian pushed himself into a sitting position and took stock of the situation. He was dirty from the river mud, bruised, and still wearing the pants and loose white shirt he’d gone to bed in.

At least he wasn’t in the habit of sleeping naked.

As he stood and brushed himself off Dorian glanced around in curiosity. Just to see if he could he reached for his powers, but the seething magic that usually ran under his skin was almost depleted.

The more he practiced his magic the more he discovered he had. Not even a year into using his powers and the reserve felt nearly bottomless, which meant he had to have traveled very far — through time, space, or both — to have exhausted it so thoroughly. A faint headache pulsed behind his forehead, though whether it was from the hot sun or his magic use, he wasn’t sure.

From the looks of it, Dorian wasn’t near any towns. Dry, flat land stretched far in all directions, and even the river didn’t seem to sustain much life beyond scrubby plants and grasses. Behind him, mountains loomed and to his left what looked like a dirt road wound across the landscape. With no better ideas, he headed for the road.

Seeing a cart coming from the opposite direction Dorian wondered briefly if he should hide, but with nowhere to go he could only duck his head. The man gave him a curious look as he drove past — evidently Dorian’s appearance was not the norm in this time and place. The man was wearing a loose, white tunic-like garment evidently made for the hot climate (unlike Dorian’s long pants and sleeves) and sandals on his feet.

Dorian, suddenly, was aware of his bare feet.

But man only passed him without comment, driving onward, and Dorian silently thanked the gods.

Just minutes later the sound of horse hooves moving at a fast clip from behind had Dorian moving to the side of the road, hoping this rider would pass him by too. No such luck.

The rider reined his horse in just behind Dorian and said something in an unfamiliar language. It sounded like a command; though Dorian couldn’t understand the words he got the general idea, turning and raising his head to see who had accosted him.

He thought his brain was fried from the hot sun, because  _ what _ in Hellas’ name were the chances of this?

Astride the horse, a long sword at his side, clad in the same white clothes and sandals as the ox-cart driver, was the Fae Dorian had met in Doranelle. His face held the same eerily ageless beauty, his body just as lithe and muscled as it had been months ago. Years ago?  _ Centuries _ ago? His appearance gave no clue as to how far Dorian had traveled.

Unable to form a coherent sentence, Dorian could only choke out, “it’s you.”

The barest smile flickered across Fenry’s lips. “Little prince. What, in the name of the gods, are you doing here?” His voice held only mild surprise, as though he ran into people from other times and places with some frequency, while the barest accent colored his use of the Common Tongue.

The nickname was enough to pull Dorian from his shocked state. He scowled up at Fenrys and replied, “I woke up here. Would you mind telling me where  _ here  _ is?”

Looking like he was suppressing a smile at Dorian’s expense, Fenrys cooed, “how adorable. Still getting a grip on that magic?”

Dorian knew his expression must have turned murderous, but the Fae only chuckled. “You’re not far outside the city of Athens.” He gestured around him in a grand, vague sweep of the arm. “Welcome to Greece. Roughly, oh, seven centuries and an unfathomable physical distance from Adarlan.”

Dorian didn’t realize his knees had buckled until Fenrys stood beside him, gripping his upper arm in a painfully tight hold. “I suppose that has to be a little alarming to hear, I should have waited to say that. Such magic use can’t be easy, either.” Though they stood almost on level normally, Fenrys ducked his head slightly to look Dorian in the eyes from where he sagged in the immortal’s grip like a slightly wilting flower. “If I let go, can you stand?”

“Yes,” Dorian croaked, and the bruising grip was released.

Somehow, the hardest part for him to wrap his head around was the male in front of him, or maybe focusing on that was his own way of compensating for the mental overload. “You’re… you look the same.”

Despite the centuries that had passed for Fenrys, the only discernible difference in his face was the pale scar that cut across his cheek, following the elegant curve of his cheekbone and coming to rest at the corner of his mouth. When he smiled, the edge crinkled in on itself. “That  _ is  _ the nature of immortality, prince.” Brushing dust off Dorian’s shirt he turned and swung back up onto his horse.

Fenrys held out a hand. When Dorian didn’t move he arched one brow and said, “You’re welcome to trek down this road for the next several leagues, if you’d prefer.”

“You like me too much to leave me here,” Dorian countered, wrapping his fingers around the Fae’s wrist and allowing himself to be pulled up.

Mildly, Fenrys replied, “ _ like _ may be too strong a word.  _ Tolerate _ is more accurate. You  _ amuse _ me. Your presence-”

“I got it, thanks,” Dorian laughed.

~

Athens was a strange mongrel, a mix between the disorganization of Rifthold and the clean beauty of Doranelle. White stone buildings wound their way up hills, built close together, leaning into each other like old friends. At the top of the hill stood a huge building of the same stone. From this distance, Dorian could only make out grand columns and a triangular roof.

“Welcome to my home. Or, I suppose, only one of many.”

As they rode into the city streets Dorian found himself asking, “what does an immortal do with all their time?”

“I’ve lived through several emperors and kings over the centuries. In return for excellent pay, I provide… services to these rulers.”

Though Fenrys couldn’t see from where he sat in front of him, Dorian’s eyes widened. “Services?”

“Oh, don’t be so vulgar,” Fenrys sighed, though Dorian thought he saw a hint of tension in his bare shoulders. “I give them advice and I kill their enemies.”

“Because that’s infinitely better than what I was picturing,” Dorian muttered.

“ _Picturing,_ you say? I’m flattered, though I admit I wouldn’t have thought you to be the type.”

Dorian didn’t deign to respond to Fenry’s joke, only wondering aloud why an immortal would spend his long, long life killing. 

“Because in my centuries with Maeve she taught me three things — the complexities of court intrigue and how to kill.”

Dorian frowned slightly. “That’s only two.”

“The third can wait, it’s a story for another day.”

That answer confused Dorian further, but he decided not to push it. “May I ask who you’ve been beheading lately?”

Because why should he not ask that as though it’s normal daytime conversation. 

“The current ruler is Pericles. I quite like him, he’s all about democracy and fairness and ‘for the people,’ which are rare qualities in rulers. His main political rival was Cimon until he was ostracized as a traitor. Not long after Pericles came into power, Cimon disappeared. Who’s to say what happened to him?”

Fenrys rode his horse right up to a gate in a large white wall. The guards nodded him through as though they recognized him, barely sparing a second glance at Dorian.

Inside the gates was what looked like a sprawling estate with one and two-story buildings, what Dorian assumed was Pericles’ palace. He dismounted after Fenrys and almost crumpled to the ground, his sore, weakened legs barely holding his weight. A groom hurried up and took the horse with a nod from Fenrys.

He was led through the courtyard, up stairs, and down hallways until they reached a room. Inside, it was relatively plain; a bed in the corner, a wicker chair, a wooden chest that presumably held clothes or weapons, and a simple woven rug to soften the stone floor.

Pointing to the bed, Fenrys said, “Clothes off, then you can sleep.”

Dorian wasn’t some blushing celibate, but the order gave him pause. He lifted one brow at Fenrys who snorted in amusement. “I assume you know  _ how  _ to get back to Rifthold?” At Dorian’s affirmation, he made a face of impatience. “You can’t get back right now because you used too much magic too quickly. You need to sleep but you are  _ not _ getting in my bed covered in filth.”

“Are you staying here?” Dorian didn’t want someone to come into the room and find him, but he also wasn’t sure he wanted Fenrys watching over him while he slept.

Fenrys evidently misunderstood Dorian’s concern. “What? You want me to get in with you?” His tone suggested he was joking, but Dorian still had to wonder — it really was impossible to tell with him.

“I was asking,” Dorian ground out, “because I don’t want to be found and arrested for trespassing.”

Fenrys waved a hand, dismissive. “Nobody would come in here, and even if they did, you wouldn’t be arrested.”

“Why,” he asked, as Fenrys turned for the door. “Are strange men often found undressed in your bed?” He tried to keep the smile off his face, but could feel the corners of his lips twitching upwards.

Studying him for a long moment, Fenrys’ face was passive but his dark eyes glimmered with amusement.

“Next time you appear in some place and time you don’t belong,” he announced decisively, “I’m leaving you to the wolves.” Just like that he was gone, door shut behind him with a thud. Dorian was barely able to peel his dirty clothes from his body and make it to the bed before he collapsed and sank into unconsciousness.

Upon waking, Dorian found Fenrys in the wicker chair, his eyes flicking over a scroll scrawled with an unfamiliar language. Though he wore the same clothes as before, his feet were bare, and the way he sat made him appear more relaxed than Dorian had seen so far.

Without looking up, Fenrys pointed at the plate sitting atop the wooden chest. “Food for you. Once you eat, will you have enough strength to go back home?”

Dorian cleared his throat and nodded, before realizing Fenrys wasn’t looking at him. “Yes, I should.” He was still wearing only his underclothes but shrugged it off.

Standing, he picked up the plate and studied it. He saw fish, which he easily recognized, and a couple fruits that were unfamiliar.

“It’s not poison,” Fenrys said from across the room, “they’re called figs. The smaller fruits on the stems are grapes.”

While he ate, he probed under his skin for his magic, feeling the familiar hum. While it hadn’t recovered fully, it should be more than enough to get him home.

Once finished, Dorian stooped to pick up his clothes from where he’d dropped them on the floor only to find they were gone. 

“Fenrys.”

“Hm?”

“Where are my clothes?”

“They’re right here.” The male gestured to the floor beside his chair where Dorian’s clothes sat, cleaned and folded. Dorian must have stared at him for a beat too long because he finally pulled his gaze from the scroll to look at him. “What is it now?”

“You  _ cleaned _ them?”

“ _I_ didn’t clean them,” Fenrys scoffed, “a washerwomen did. And you should know that caused a bit of an uproar — sleeves and pant legs haven’t caught on yet here.”

“I had noticed,” he muttered, eyeing Fenry’s long, tanned legs, left mostly on display thanks to the tunic’s relatively short skirt. “But if clothing like mine has existed in Erilea for at least a century before my birth, how has that not spread to this continent in the past several hundred years?” Worry churned in his gut over the future of his continent, and the guarded look that arose in Fenrys’ eyes did nothing to soothe him.

“It’s warm here nearly all year round, such clothing serves little purpose,” Fenrys replied. Dorian knew this wasn’t the whole truth, but he also knew Fenrys wouldn’t tell him outright. 

Another thought occurred to him then, chilling him to his bones. “You know how I die. You had to have lived through my death in order to be sitting here now.”

Fenrys stood quickly, his shoulders tight. “I won’t talk about the future with you, at least not within your lifetime. Too much knowledge and you might try to change things. Everything must happen as it’s meant to, even if we don’t like the end result. You should go.”

There was a catch in Fenrys’ voice as he spoke, a slight hitch that Dorian almost missed. “You don’t believe what you’re saying.”

As genuine pain filled Fenrys’ dark eyes, Dorian regretted his words. He took a step towards the Fae (a dangerous move, agitated as he was) and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I won’t ask you to rehash your past, Fenrys. I’m sorry for overstepping.”

As he allowed the fabric of the world to fold and bend around him, he barely caught Fenrys’ quiet, “goodbye, prince.”


	3. Norway, 600 AD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I’m aware there’s no demand for this pairing and relatively little demand for either of these characters.
> 
> Yes, I’m going to keep writing this fic. I like period dramas and have a lot of feelings about both Dorian Havilliard and Fenrys. Sue me.
> 
> This chapter is a long one, whoops.

Dorian’s strides were long and purposeful as he headed for the castle game lands. A bow was slung over his shoulder, more for show than anything. He wasn’t planning on shooting any game, he only needed a place to get away from the king’s increasing rage, from the otherworldly evil that was spreading like disease through the castle, through Adarlan.

He had barely made it into the woods before, between one step and another, Dorian’s boots sank into knee-high snow.

Of all the places his magic had taken him on its own whim, this was easily the worst. Flurries of snow whipped around him, tossed by winds that threatened to knock him over, while the air was so cold that it numbed his fingers in seconds. Tall pines loomed above him, blocking out what little light the moon and stars offered.

As Dorian scanned his surroundings, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, his senses on high alert.  _ Look, _ a voice hissed at him, though whether it came from inside his head or outside, Dorian couldn’t tell.

Turning slowly, his eyes landed on the real danger posed to him. Frostbite and exposure wouldn’t kill Dorian because that massive wolf was going to do it first. It peered at him from between the trees, white pelt blending in with the snow.

Moving at a glacial pace, Dorian pulled the bow from his shoulder and notched an arrow. The wind was so intense, he wasn’t sure if he could make the shot, even at such close range, but the beast might understand what the weapons could do and leave Dorian be.

The wolf settled lower on its haunches and Dorian debated whether it was about to lung; before he could, there was a brilliant flash of violet light. Where the wolf had crouched a moment ago, a human-like figure kneeled, swaying slightly, blond hair damp and falling in front of his face.

“You came,” was all Fenrys said before slumping forward, dead weight. It was then that Dorian noticed the dark stain spreading across the male’s side, the blood that decorated the snow around him.

Dorian didn’t think, just dropped his bow and lunged to catch Fenrys, but he was too far and too slow to keep him from collapsing into the snow. Supporting his shoulders with one arm, Dorian gripped Fenry’s chin, turning his head slightly, side to side. He could hear the Fae breathing but it was a gravelly, hollow sound, and his eyes wouldn’t focus on Dorian, half-shut, his gaze drifting aimlessly.

“Fenrys, hey,” Dorian murmured, “stay awake, alright? Where can I take you?”

Fenrys’ eyes settled on Dorian, though he knew he wasn’t really seeing his face. “East… the coast,” he rasped, before going completely limp in Dorian’s arms.

The prince cursed. He was left here on a mountain at night, poorly dressed for the most bitter cold he had ever felt, tasked with saving a gravely injured Fae, and he had three vague words of direction to guide him. The chance that this ended in death for both of them was worryingly high, but Dorian didn’t have the strength to travel home and even if he did, he couldn’t leave Fenrys to bleed out in the middle of a forest.

Dorian deposited his quiver on the ground, it would do him no good and any extra weight had to be shed if he was going to carry Fenrys down a mountain.

Fenrys was tall but not absurdly so, he stood just above Dorian, and though he was well-muscled, it was a lean kind of muscle, not the huge, bulky mass of some warriors. Even so, Fenrys wasn’t an easy burden in his arms.

Already exhausted from his magic use, Dorian’s legs felt leaden before he picked Fenrys up. The high snow and winds only made the journey harder and his mouth tasted like iron, an unfortunate sign of near-burnout. Dorian didn’t even know what he was looking for, but the ground sloped beneath his feet and he followed it to what he assumed was flatter land. When the trees thinned enough that Dorian could see the sky, he found the three bright stars that formed the curve of Diana’s bow, all aligned to point East. He was headed in the best direction he could hope for, but still had no idea what Fenrys intended for him to find, or if the Fae was even lucid when he said it. As Dorian walked, Fenrys had been muttering to himself, what sounded like a name (Connor?) over and over.

His feet grew numb from the cold while his legs grew numb from exertion. Over the leagues he traveled Dorian came to know nothing but pain and cold and a crippling certainty that he was going to die.

When one leg gave out from underneath him and he stumbled, falling to his knees, black closed in on the edges of his vision. Fenrys’ unconscious body spilled from his arms as snow soaked the knees of Dorian’s pants. He didn’t care. He had no strength left.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to Fenrys, who didn’t even stir. “I failed you.” He felt a distinct sense of shame and, more strangely, regret. Infuriating, swaggering, and intensely guarded, Fenrys had still gotten under his skin.

_ Foolish,  _ that same voice from earlier chided,  _ look with your magic, not with your eyes.  _ Dorian lifted his head, letting his eyes drift shut as he cast his magic out like a net. Unsure what he was searching for, he nearly overlooked the little building, a minute interruption in the expanse of trees and snow and rock.  _ There, _ the voice said, sounding almost smug in its own ethereal, formless way.

The cabin wasn’t far. Whether that was where Fenrys had meant for Dorian to go or not, it was his only option. He staggered to his feet but his arms were too tired to carry Fenrys any further, the fact that Dorian had made it this far was a miracle unto itself but he couldn’t leave him. Knowing what the consequences could be, he drew on his magic once again, allowing some strength into his limbs even as his head spun. He picked up the Fae, conscious of his wounds, and lurched forward into the trees.

By the time Dorian reached the little cabin, he was unsure how he’d remained conscious so long. Praying to the gods there was no one in there, he shouldered the door open (thankfully unlocked) and stepped inside. There was no surface large enough for Fenrys’ unconscious form so Dorian laid him on the floor beside the hearth. It took barely a thought to summon a small flame to the logs, then to the two lanterns that hung by the door.

Now slightly warmer and finally safe, Dorian was clueless. He had very little medical knowledge, much less the slightest idea of what to do for a mortally wounded Fae. He did, at the very least, know where to start: by assessing the damage.

Sliding his fingertips under the leather of Fenrys’ boots, Dorian quickly found what he’d expected, a small silver dagger, and thanked Fenrys for at least being slightly predictable. Armed to the teeth, always.

Already covered in blood, Dorian didn’t let it bother him as he cut away Fenrys’ shirt. In the lantern light, the gruesome injury was hard to see under the mess of blood caked over Fenrys’ torso. Casting a glance around, Dorian spotted a small wooden bucket. He hurried outside, filled it with snow, and placed it next to the fire. While it melted he placed two fingers over Fenrys’ neck where his pulse beat, thready and weak, but still there. 

Using a ripped-off piece of jacket sleeve and the still-cold water, Dorian began to clean the wound. The more it became exposed, the more Dorian’s stomach roiled, nausea sapping what little strength he had left. A massive gash ran from hip bone to sternum, so long and wide that Dorian wondered how Fenrys was even alive. It looked like someone had done a poor job of gutting a fish. The rest of Fenrys’ torso was covered in brutal scars, white lines that slashed violently through his tanned skin. It was a brutal reminder of who Fenrys was,  _ what  _ he was. For all his jokes and teasing, he was a trained killer who had lived through millennia of war and death.

Swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, Dorian tried to help the only way he knew how. He’d spent very little time training himself in healing (now cursing his own dismissal of the art) but he faced little choice now. Letting his hands hover over the ruin of Fenrys’ body he tried to think of happier moments, to let the healing magic flow from inside of him like a river at its source. A burnout loomed closer and closer, but just as the soft golden light touched Fenrys’ wound, the male’s eyes shot open.

His fingers closed around Dorian’s wrist as those onyx eyes fixed on his face. Surprise flickered in them, gone before Dorian was even sure what he’d seen.

“It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Dorian agreed. “I need to heal you, and if you would let go of my wrist that would benefit us both.”

Fenrys’ voice was rasping and quiet, Dorian had to lean closer to hear his words. “You, boyo, are one campfire away from a complete burnout. I  _ will _ survive without the healing magic.”

Pulling back to look at him, Dorian’s brow furrowed. “ _ You _ are one sudden movement away from death. I need to close that wound.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Fenrys hissed, tone impatient, “if you kill yourself healing me, we both die here, and I’m not eager to see that happen.”

“And what do you suggest?”

Fenrys nodded in the direction of the hearth, pain flashing across his face at the movement. It took Dorian a moment to understand what the glance meant. “You can’t be serious.”

In the firelight, the contours of Fenrys’ face stood out in sharp relief, full lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes, little prince, I’m serious.” He pressed a second knife into Dorian’s palm, pulled from somewhere within his clothes, and Dorian could feel the faint tremble in his hands.

Laying the knife at the edge of the fire so only the blade absorbed its heat, Dorian turned back to Fenrys. “Why were you surprised it was me?” Fenrys only arched one brow in question.

“When you woke up, you said ‘it’s you,’ ” he elaborated, “were you expecting someone else?”

Fenrys turned his head so he was staring up at the wood beams of the ceiling. “I knew I was about to die,” he said, not looking at Dorian, “so I sent out a call for help, of sorts. I just let my magic spread outwards like ripples in a pond. If something evil sensed it, well… I was dead already. Thankfully it was a friendly face.”

Dorian desperately needed sleep, his mind already whirling, but Fenrys’ words did little to help his racing thoughts. He sent out a distress call and  _ Dorian,  _ countless leagues and hundreds of years in the past, had heard it. Not only that, but it was like Fenrys’ magic had carried him here. Usually when he was taken on his jaunts through time and space, it was like being violently wrenched sideways, jarring and unpleasant. This time, it was like stepping over an invisible line. Gentle, easy.

The implications of that were more than Dorian wanted to consider, so he only shook off his thoughts and pulled the knife from the fire. Its tip glowed red-hot and Fenrys audibly swallowed at the sight of it.

“Not too late for my healing magic,” Dorian chuckled, though he was as nervous as the Fae.

Fenrys tore off a relatively clean piece of his ruined shirt, rolling it tight and placing it between his teeth like a gag. “You’ll need to stay still,” Dorian warned, “I don’t have any way to hold you down.”

Muttering something unintelligible through the cloth in his mouth, Fenrys shifted his body slightly, an impatient gesture to continue. Dorian stamped down the revulsion in his stomach and gently, as though that would spare Fenrys any pain, placed the burning metal against the edges of the wound. He wanted to look away, wanted to cover his ears over the sickening sizzle of flesh. Tendons in Fenrys’ neck strained but he held still, teeth clenched against the pain. As soon as the knife was pulled away he muttered what sounded like a string of curses around the gag, his chest heaving for air.

The blade was cooling slightly so Dorian placed it back near the fire — twice more he pressed it to Fenrys’ side, silently apologizing as his nails dug into the wood planks beneath him and his jaw tightened.

Finally the gash was closed, now an ugly red burn that, at the very least, no longer bled. The knife clattered to the floor from Dorian’s numb grip, and all he could find the energy to do was place his hand on Fenrys’ bloodied chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath his palm.

Febrys spat out his makeshift gag and said, “don’t worry about binding the burn, it should heal before infection can even set in.” In the flickering light Dorian couldn’t see his face well, but he suspected the dark proved no problem for the Fae. He almost certainly looked like shit and Fenrys could see every last detail. Instead of arguing, he only nodded and moved to rinse his hands in the water bucket. There was a bed in the corner but Dorian didn’t want to dirty it, instead he pulled several thick furs off of it and piled them on the floor by the hearth. Fenrys refused when offered one, saying he wasn’t going to move any time soon, but Dorian just draped one over him without a word and promptly collapsed onto the others.

~

Stirring awake, Dorian found the cabin illuminated in pinkish-gray light, streaming in through the tiny window. The glass was ill-fitted in the panes and cold air blew in, but with the fire still burning and the furs over him, he was warm. “Where are we,” he muttered, blinking spots out of his eyes. “Is that the sunrise?”

Fenrys, hunched over what looked like a partially carved axe handle, chuckled slightly. “It’s sunset, you slept through the day. And since you asked, we’re in Norway, roughly nine hundred years after your last visit.”

In the light, he could see Fenrys better. He looked shockingly good for someone who was almost two millennia old, his face still marred by that thin white scar, otherwise unmarked by the years. His hair was different now, shorn close along the sides and long in the middle, twisted into a braid that hung over his shoulder. A hint of indigo ink poked above the neckline of his shirt, though Dorian couldn’t make out the tattoos’ designs.

Sitting up was a momentous effort on Dorian’s part, but he managed to prop himself up and squint over at Fenrys. “How are you up? You were a hair's-breadth from death only hours ago.”

Fenrys put his carving down and lifted his shirt hem to show an angry red line mottled with bruising and hints of white scar tissue. “The burn is partly healed by now. It  _ will _ leave one hellish scar, but I’m afraid that’s nothing new.” The smile he sent Dorian was slightly grim.

Standing suddenly, he held out one hand to Dorian, pulling him onto his feet with relatively little effort. “Since you’re awake, I’d like to show you something.”

“Oh?”

“And bring one of those furs, it’s a little brisk outside.”

Dorian wasn’t sure if Fenrys was kidding when he said ‘a little brisk,’ but the wind was howling with the same ferocity as the night before, and the knee-high snowdrifts soaked his pant legs. Feeling a strong grip on his forearm, he didn’t have time to react before a familiar tugging sensation pulled at his gut, far less violent than he was used to. A second later he was standing at the edge of a cliff, snowy rocks dropping into a gray sea, a slate-colored sky stretching above to the horizon.

The pink cast to the light told Dorian the sun was dropping behind the dark clouds. The dark sea crashed against the cliffs over and over, roiling and violent and beautiful in an ominous way. This wild north cared nothing for him or Fenrys or anyone; willful and untamed, its raw power was evident in the very air around them.

_ Norway. _

Dorian rolled the name around his tongue for a moment, feeling the unfamiliar syllables. “Tell me about the people,” he finally said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

“They’re a strong people, tall and broad shouldered and mentally tough, too, as you have to be in this land. They’re mostly farmers and traders and blacksmiths and weavers, but they’re also fearsome raiders. Viking, they call their warriors, admittedly rather violent even by my standards, but they are some of the most skilled ship makers and sailors I’ve ever seen. Their gods thirst for blood and they honor that thirst with zeal. Their women enjoy a degree of autonomy I haven’t seen in many places, fighting alongside the men as equals and even handling most of the money.”

Something in Fenrys’ words caught Dorian’s attention. “How long have you lived here, with these people?”

“I’ve been in the north for seventy years, but I don’t stay in any one town too long. People become suspicious when I stay strangely young.”

“You have lived here for decades yet you still say ‘they,’ ” Dorian noted. He didn’t move, but his eyes flicked over to watch Fenrys out of his peripheral vision, standing tall and unmoving. How lonely must Fenrys be with no city of Fae, with so few immortals that they’re forced into hiding. Again he wondered what happened to Erilia, to Wendlyn, even to the southern continent. 

Abruptly, Fenrys said, “when I saw you in those woods, Dorian, I first thought you might be my brother. An impossibility, but I still hoped.”

Dorian’s attention snagged on his name — the first time he’d heard it out of Fenrys’ mouth. He chose not to mention it, instead asking, “how did he die?”

The sun was nearly set and it was becoming darker and colder by the minute but Dorian didn’t prod Fenrys, only pulled the pelt tighter around his shoulders and watched that impassive mask crumble slightly. “I killed him,” Fenrys finally replied, “with my disobedience and my rutting ego, thinking I could outsmart Maeve.”

“When?”

Fenrys’ laugh was hollow. “It was during your lifetime, prince, but don’t you try to change anything.”

“But if I could save his life—”

“You can’t!” Dorian flinched at the sudden intensity in Fenrys’ voice.

“Listen,” Fenrys sighed, softer this time, “Do you remember what I told you in Athens? Everything has to happen as it will, and changing things… I don’t want to think of the consequences. Besides, if you challenge Maeve, you  _ will  _ die, and I dislike that idea as much as you.”

Fenrys was gazing out over the ocean, black as his eyes in the nighttime darkness. There was a long silence. Then, “how are you, Dorian?”

Taken aback, Dorian didn’t answer for a moment. “Alright, I suppose. A little bit hungry—”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t mean right now. In your normal life, how are you?”

He frowned. “Don’t you know what happens to me?”

Fenrys shrugged slightly. “I know the rough course of your life, but no more than the average person. It doesn’t matter what I know, it matters because I don’t think you’ve been asked that question in a long, long time.”

He was right. Dorian couldn’t remember the last time he was asked that question by someone who truly meant it, aside from Chaol, and even Chaol couldn’t be told everything. “There’s evil in Adarlan, the kind that hasn’t been faced in centuries. My father grows more corrupt by the day. I’m struggling to learn magic that I shouldn’t even  _ have _ considering magic disappeared nearly ten years ago. I’m set to inherit a broken, bloody kingdom that committed genocide on an entire people.  _ And _ on top of everything else, my mother is arranging endless events for me to meet eligible noblewomen and I cannot stand any of them.”

Fenrys’ lips quirked upward at the last complaint. “Do women not catch your fancy?”

“Women certainly do.  _ These _ women do not. They’re all vapid and not one of them has read any good sort of books.” He was glad Fenrys chose to make a joke of his predicament, heartfelt pity might be too much to take.

“Good sort of books? Don’t tell me you’re the pompous prick who only reads dense, boring tomes then complains when nobody else likes them.”

A short laugh slipped past Dorian’s lips. “I think many would consider my reading taste to be rather unrefined.”

“You do  _ not  _ read those lewd romance novels.” Dorian could hear the exasperation in Fenrys’ voice, but his own sheepish silence was answer enough.

A sigh came from Dorian’s left before he felt a hand grasp his. “On that note, I’m taking us back to the cabin. Hold on tight, little prince.”

There was a split second where Dorian breathed the frigid, salty air and heard the roar of the surf, letting the sensations wash over him before he stood in the cabin once again, lanterns casting a soft glow into the small space.

After a quick meal of bread and salted fish he bid Fenrys goodbye and let his magic wrench him back to Rifthold. It was only once he returned to his rooms that he realized the fur pelt was still draped across his shoulders, smelling of woodsmoke and blood and something distinctly… Fenrys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I know what I said in the tags, but I might make them gay.
> 
> It’s pride month, you know?
> 
> Also idk how to write platonic relationships anymore, it’s either sibling dynamic or romance. That’s it.


	4. Ireland, 1704

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of AU where Dorian and Aelin never really met before the war/after the king’s death.
> 
> Also Niamh is pronounced Nee-ev or Nee-iv

It was nearly midnight when, outside the windows, a sudden flare of orange light flickered and died, accompanied by the roar of intense flames. Fenrys’ head whipped around towards the door, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. A brief pulse of magic had slid past him like a ripple in a pond, cool and soothing and, after so long, achingly familiar.

Niamh, seated by the hearth with a book, also looked up with a frown, though her reaction was more likely at the sight and noise than the magic. “What was that?”

Fenrys was already halfway out of the house, a long hunting knife in his hand. “Wait here,” he called over his shoulder, though all he got in response was Niamh’s sarcastic snort, her boots already partly on as she moved to follow him.

Magic, Fenrys knew, could be one of several things. Some dark beast could have come from gods-know-where to kill the townspeople. A Fae-like magical being could have appeared.  _ Or,  _ he thought, the prince was back, though it had been over a millennia since he had saved Fenrys’ life in Norway.

Fenrys’ feet raced at an inhuman speed over the dirt lane towards the source of the magic. There, outside the farrier’s, was a crowd of townsfolk, clustered around something on the road. As he got closer he could hear their voices, confused and, in some cases, slightly hysterical.

“He just appeared!” Aengus Doherty, the farrier whose shop was surrounded, sounded almost indignant.

“He appeared in a blaze of fire!” someone else added.

This set off old Mrs. Walsh, evidently the cause of the hysterics, who proclaimed, “the Devil has come! He has come for the sinners!

This caused an uproar that Fenrys ignored as he shouldered his way to the front of the crowd. On the cobblestones was a limp figure, unmoving. His clothes were singed and the ground around him was decorated in scorch marks and broken glass.

It certainly  _ looked  _ like a poor soul spit out of Hell, but Fenrys knew better. Tucking his knife into his belt as carefully as possible, he stooped down and lifted Dorian into his arms, glass crunching beneath his boots. Without looking at any of the townspeople he strode forward, the crowd parting before him as he held his supposedly damned burden. A few made the sign of the cross as he passed but he didn’t spare them a moment’s notice. 

They’d talk about this, about him, but it was long past time he left this town anyways. The one thing keeping him here was currently standing on the dirt road back to the house and scowling ferociously. Niamh stood, feet planted wide, hands on her hips — directly in Fenrys’ path. “‘Wait here,’ you say. What am I, a child? And what are you holding? What was that light?”

The questions she asked now would only lead to more questions, the very kind Fenrys had tried to avoid for the past three years.

With a heavy sigh he stepped around her, nodding for her to follow. They walked together, her shorter legs taking quicker strides to keep up, for a full minute before Fenrys said, “I promise, my love, you can get all the answers you want once we’re back and I know he’s safe.”

Niamh seemed to take this as satisfactory and hurried past him to the house. By the time he got there she had fixed up the bed slightly and lit several candles in addition to the fire in the hearth. He lay Dorian on the bed, frowning as he examined the prince closely. As far as Fenrys could tell, he was of similar age to the last time they had met, his hair dark and unruly against the white sheets.

He looked far paler, more sickly, than he had all those years ago, an ugly white band wrapped around his throat like he’d been chained or—

Or collared.

Fenrys hadn’t worked closely with Dorian during the war, Aelin Galathynius had kept her most powerful players spread over the continent like a net, but he  _ had _ heard the stories of the Valg prince and the wyrdstone rings and collars.

The street around Dorian had been littered with shattered glass and scorch marks but Dorian was, somehow, mostly untouched, only the edges of his clothes singed and blackened. Like the fire had come  _ from  _ him, not around him.

And the glass… 

Fenrys had also heard tell of the destruction of Rifthold’s famous glass castle — and the shimmering glass wall that had then surrounded it. Somewhere within all that destruction, the King of Adarlan had been killed and the Crown Prince was freed from the darkness that held him. Nobody had known precisely what happened that day in the capital, not even the Queen, yet Fenrys suspected this visit of Dorian’s was directly related.

Fenrys dragged a wooden chair from the main room into the bedroom, settling in by Dorian’s head. Leaning over, elbows braced on his knees, the Fae began his vigil. Briefly, he heard Niamh in the doorway behind him, though she said nothing and left after a long moment.

Fenrys’s eyes grew heavy. He didn’t remember falling asleep until Dorian’s voice dragged him back to consciousness, rasping, “Fenrys.”

He looked up to Dorian, his brow furrowed in concern. The prince’s blue eyes were empty, dull, those handsome features void of anything human.

“Prince,” he breathed, taken aback by the coldness in his face.

“King.”

“Hm?”

Turning his head to look fully at Fenrys, an icy smile slipped up Dorian’s face, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “My father’s dead. I suppose that makes me the rightful King of Adarlan.”

Reaching out, Fenrys brushed his fingers over the pale band around Dorian’s throat. Dorian visibly shuddered at the touch. “What happened?”

Instead of answering he turned away, though Fenrys still caught the guilt, the pain that flickered through his eyes fast as lightning. He was slipping, sliding away over a precipice into deep, dark  _ nothing.  _ Fenrys knew what that cliff’s edge looked like, how tempting it was, how it beckoned. He had known it since the night Maeve first forced him into her bed and he’d been close,  _ so damned close _ to plummeting the day she killed Connal.

It was all too easy to begin that slide into darkness, but the struggle it took to claw back up…he feared Dorian couldn’t,  _ wouldn’t _ do it.

He gripped Dorian’s chin tight, turning so the prince was forced to look at him. “What happened,” he repeated, his voice unforgiving.

“I expelled that gods damned demon from my body, shattered the glass castle, and killed the king. The force of the explosion sent me right into… wherever and whenever  _ this  _ is.” Dorian’s voice was matter of fact as he said this.

Fenrys laughed quietly. “Really? Looking at you, Dorian, you couldn’t kill a mouse, much less a Valg prince.”

His words had the desired effect. Dorian curled his lip in a snarl and said, “I could still end your miserable life in a second, Fenrys.” While simmering rage was a far cry from the cool, cultured arrogance Dorian usually possessed, it at least meant he was feeling  _ something _ other than raw, unadulterated  _ pain. _

Letting his lips curl in a wicked smile, Fenrys purred, “with a face like that? I just might let you.”

Dorian only scoffed and glanced away, too exhausted for another display of anger. He was drifting off again when footsteps sounded behind Fenrys. The prince shot up, ice creeping outward from his body, but Fenrys laid a hand on his wrist. “She’s family, Dorian.”

Niamh placed a bowl of soup on the wooden bedside table with a tight smile at Fenrys. She didn’t so much as glance at Dorian. Fenrys murmured a thank you and she nodded in acknowledgement before backing out of the room

“What language was that?”

“What?”

“What you just said to her. What language was that?”

Fenrys blinked in surprise. Switching between the Common Tongue and Gaelic had been instinctual: he hadn’t truly realized how easy it was to speak this language that had been dead for thousands of years. “Gaelic,” he finally answered. “We’re in Ireland, in the calendar year 1704.”

Dorian’s eyes fixed on Fenrys’ face for a beat too long before he finally asked, “And how old would you be?”

Immeasurably old. Older than Ireland, than Norway, than the great trees of the forests who had watched the rise and fall of entire cultures, who had seen the end of the mighty Celts and the rise of a strange, single-God religion. 

Fenrys didn’t say any of this. Instead, he pulled up the hem of his shirt to show the scar he still bore from their last encounter. “Roughly one thousand years ago and it’s still here,” he chuckled, aiming for levity in the thick silence that had fallen around them.

Eyes darkening with something unreadable, Dorian reached out a hand as though he might touch that vicious red line, but Fenrys dropped his shirt over it before he could. “You should get some sleep.”

“Who was that woman who came in here?”

Fenrys almost left the room, simply so Dorian would be forced to sleep again, but something warned him that leaving the prince alone right now might be the worst thing he could do. “My wife.”

At his answer, curiosity sparked on Dorian’s haggard face — the first real emotion Fenrys had seen out of him.

“Admittedly, it started as a union of business, I would never consider marriage otherwise.” When all it took was a matter of years for people to discover Fenrys wasn’t what he seemed, any relationship truly binding was only a waste of time and heartache.

“She wanted to reclaim her father’s old property — this house we’re in now — but couldn’t buy it back alone, a male family member would have to sign the documents. We were friendly at the time, and she knew I was a bit of a lone wolf. I have few attachments that this might get in the way of.”

Without prompting, Dorian said, “I loved someone. My father killed her for it.”

Fenrys waited for a moment, but when Dorian didn’t elaborate, the Fae continued. “Sometime in the intervening years we became something real. I should have known better, but I suppose with a thick enough skull, even three millennia won’t teach you a lesson.

“She was a healer, and it started out of an idiotic romance I fooled myself into thinking would end well. She was also, as it turns out, a rebel spy.” Dorian laughed and the sound was bitter enough to break Fenrys’ long-dead heart. “Misery loves company,” was all Fenrys could think to say. Needing to change the subject before the weight of all his lonely years caught up to him, he picked up the soup Niamh had left beside them. “Can you eat?”

Pushing himself into a sitting position, Dorian nodded, the white band on his throat moving as he swallowed. He took the bowl and spoon with shaky hands, brushing off Fenrys’ offer of help. He’d emptied the bowl before he spoke again.

“Why are you helping me?”

“You saved my life, Dorian, it’s the least I can do.”

“No. Even before… Norway. In Greece, too, you helped me, and in Doranelle. Now, you’re playing nursemaid to me despite only having met me four times in your long, long life.”

Fenrys leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach while he considered his reply. In truth, the fact that they had even met four times was absurd considering the circumstances —  _ something  _ bound them in some way for Dorian’s magic to keep bringing them together. If Dorian wasn't human and if Fenrys wasn’t smarter than that, he might even think it was a mating bond.

Dorian, watching him closely, was still waiting for an answer.

“Because despite all the time that passes between your visits, they’re still a consistency I can rely on. Because you’re the last holdover from a world long since gone. Because, against my better judgement, I’ve started to like you.”

Scoffing, Dorian glanced down, away from him. “My magic keeps growing, day by day. Every time I use it I find it’s stronger and deeper, near bottomless… but it’s still intrinsically tied to  _ me, _ to my life force, my body, my mind. So why does it always bring  _ me _ to  _ you?” _

They were treading dangerous territory. The vulnerability, the sheer unknown… 

Fenrys cleared his throat softly. “As much as I hate these three words… I don’t know. And with magic so diminished, with Erilea—” Fenrys cut himself off, scowling at what he’d nearly revealed. “—there’s no way for me to find out,” he finished lamely.

“What happened to Erilea?”

Heaving a sigh, Fenrys shook his head. “What I said before still stands; I won’t tell you for fear you’ll try to stop it. You can’t. Nobody can. Now get some sleep.”

Slowly leaning back against the headboard, Dorian snorted. “Right. ‘Your world as you know it will end. Now go to sleep.’ ”

“It happens centuries after your lifetime.” Fenrys knew the words were little comfort, but Dorian’s eyes were drifting shut anyways. Finally, his head dropped back onto the headboard with a quiet  _ thunk,  _ asleep, and Fenrys slipped from the room.

In the main living area of the house he found Niamh seated before the fire burning in the hearth, dying out as the sun rose higher and higher. She didn’t tear her gaze from the glowing embers, didn’t look at him as she said, “that was no language I’ve ever heard.”

Fenrys opened his mouth to explain (with no real idea of  _ what  _ to even say) but before he could get a word out she spoke again. “You promised me answers.”

He knew the answers, the explanations that he owed — they went far beyond tonight’s events. With a heavy sigh he settled into the chair across from her, suddenly  _ feeling _ the weight of all the years in his immortal bones. Keeping his voice slow and steady he laid it all out before her, baring himself in a way that was so completely foreign. The only other person who knew this much about him was laying half-dead in the bedroom.

Throughout it all Niamh just watched him carefully, warily, her sea-green gaze traveling over his face, over the delicate points of his ears and canines. In the end, all she had to say was, “I suspected so.”

Fenrys wasn’t quick enough to school his own expression, surprise flickering across his face for the barest moment. “Really?”

Niamh smiled sadly. “Your ears and canines aren’t subtle, though they’re easy to explain away as strange family traits. But Fenrys… your strength, your speed — I’ve never seen anything like it and I can still tell when you hold back. You bear the tattoos of the old northmen, the long-gone pagans whose people now bow to one God. The Irish, too, used to be pagan, and the old ways still linger even with Christianity’s dominion spread across the country. We tell old folk tales of the seelies and banshees and faeries. Faerie, Fair Folk, Elves… they go by many names. I don’t know  _ what _ exactly you are, but I don’t think you’re of this land.”

“Where I’m from, we were known only as Fae. A mighty race, once, living alongside humans and other beings good and evil.”

“What happened to them?”

Fenrys spared only a glance towards the bedroom where Dorian’s deep breathing assured him the prince was still asleep. “A cataclysm like no other. Nobody who survived knew what caused it or why it happened. Several continents just  _ sank,  _ gone beneath the waves, their technology and magic along with them. Now all that remains is stories, the once-great Fae city of Doranelle reduced to legend that many don’t even believe.”

Niamh’s eyes went wide. “Atlantis.”

Fenrys could see the awe in her face, shock warring with betrayal, the knowledge that had just been laid before her versus the very things she had suspected. “You know… you know what this changes, right? You know things won’t ever be the same.”

Pushing down that old ache, the pain of so many loves lost, Fenrys nodded mutely. He knew, from the moment he saw Dorian in the street, that the inevitable had finally arrived.

Because when it came down to it, no sane person would love a three thousand year old male… male, not man, because he wasn’t even  _ human.  _ Standing, Fenrys picked nonexistent dust from the front of his shirt, avoiding looking at Niamh. “I’ll give you time to think all this over alone. You’ll know where to find me.”

With that, he headed for the bedroom, towards the damaged King and the last remnant of a sunken world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get up!
> 
> Also, I see & appreciate all your comments, I just don’t always know how to respond! So thank you for the comments and kudos, you’re all wonderful!

**Author's Note:**

> Each time period will be a different chapter, but I’m unsure how many there’ll be total.
> 
> Drop any suggestions for time periods in the comments! I’m already thinking Ancient Greece and Viking-age Scandinavia.


End file.
